


The Viscount's Daughter

by GhostofBambi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Royalty AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostofBambi/pseuds/GhostofBambi
Summary: The beautiful, vivacious, and decidedly redheaded daughter of the 16th Viscount of Rowena has stolen the heart of young Prince James. Trouble is, she couldn't be less interested in his.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Comments: 58
Kudos: 253





	1. Lord de Mimsy-Porpington's Plans are Foiled

**Author's Note:**

> I was not going to post this because I have so many unfinished projects and I've been going through an incredibly rough time lately and, most pertinently, I've been seriously doubting myself as a writer for the past six or seven months and have been really in my head with the idea that the quality of my writing has been declining. But I like this. I have more written for it. I needed the boost to my own happiness and I think it's fun. So please enjoy this chapter. I'll update it when I can. The same goes for the rest of my fics. When I can. Because I want to. I feel protective and fond of every story on this account and I don't intend to leave any of them unfinished. With that said I hope this chapter is enjoyable and gives you all a giggle or two.
> 
> This fic is a gift for Olivia. Thank you darling, for being lovely <3

"I have news," said James urgently.

The queen continued the conversation she was having, ignoring her son completely.

"I said I had news," James repeated, tugging on her sleeve. The banquet was in full swing, and the sound of voices, clattering forks and clinking goblets rumbled like distant thunder all around them. "Mother?"

She brushed his hand away as if it were a fly. "Once the new lawns are finished, the league can reconvene—"

"Mother?"

"—without much delay, I hope. I wouldn't like to start after September and cut down the number of matches, though dear old Perkins _is_ quite particular about the lawns—"

"As he should be, Your Majesty."

"Mother?"

"Our Quidditch pitches, on the other hand, are quite ready for the season—"

"MOTHER!"

"I believe the prince requires your attention, Your Majesty," said Lord de Mimsy-Porpington, who was the marquis of some place or other that James didn't care to remember. What did Lord de Mimsy-Porpington matter? He was as dreary and dull as a funeral, whereas James had very important news. World-altering news, in fact; news that would change the very fabric of their existence forever, yet here was his mother, more concerned with croquet lawns and Quidditch pitches than the tidings borne by her first and only child.

James had interrupted a banquet to bring her this news. A _banquet._ In the middle of dessert, too. There was a treacle tart sitting untouched on his plate that Peter or some other greedy swine could easily snatch up and eat. Then they'd have to be put in the stockade for stealing and James hated seeing people in the stockade, except for the time he'd trapped Sirius in it. That had been hilarious.

Euphemia looked at James, candlelight reflected in her dark eyes. Her expression was impassive.

"You have news for me, I believe?" she enquired.

James stood up straight to deliver his shocking report. McGonagall always said that a prince who slouched was a prince not worth respecting. "I do."

"Important news?"

"Very important."

"So very important that you felt it incumbent upon you to push out your chair with an unholy screech, race up here like an unfettered horse and interrupt your mother?"

Lord de Mimsy-Porpington hastily disguised his laugh with a cough and James's face burned with embarrassment, but he didn't dare blink. The queen was a stalk-and-ambush predator of the most sophisticated kind, attacking when her prey was weak and unsuspecting. It was no surprise that her Animagus form was that of a sleek panther. James had to appear strong in the face of adversity.

"Yes," he said firmly. "That important."

"Once of our guests has died, then?"

"No."

"Been taken ill?"

"No, but—"

"Then it can't be so important that my son would act in a most un-princely manner," Mother concluded. "Do you not agree, Porpington?"

Lord de Mimsy-Porpington blinked rapidly. Perhaps he was startled to have been called upon for an opinion, when it was common knowledge that he'd never said a single interesting thing in his life. "Well, Your Majesty—"

"I have fallen in love," James loudly announced. "So _there."_

The queen's sharp black eyebrows shot right up to her hairline.

 _Victory,_ James thought.

He had known that this was bound to get his mother's attention. She was always waffling on about how finding a suitable bride was a responsibility of utmost importance for any young prince, and how James needed a good wife to make him behave, for god forbid her clever and talented and ludicrous son (all words McGonagall had used—he didn't know what the last one meant but he'd been meaning to look it up soon) be left to rule unchecked once she and his father were cold in their graves. The way his mother talked, he'd sink the realm's money into Quidditch tournaments, cat sanctuaries and not much else.

It was deeply unfair.

Mostly that he couldn't turn the castle into a cat sanctuary, but also the marriage thing. James had scores of good ideas for the future of the kingdoms, like pig farming, for example. Pigs produced the tastiest meat of all the animals. So versatile. So delicious. But his mother simply didn't care for his thoughts.

Though James had found the woman of his dreams now, so he supposed he could cheerfully bear having a wife.

"When did this happen?" Mother asked him.

"Just now, when I saw her."

"Is that so?"

"Very so."

"And where, pray tell, may I find the object of my sweet son's affections?"

James turned around and pointed further down the table, where a beautiful girl in a pale blue dress was contemplating her dinner, wedged uncomfortably between lords Wolpert and Wood.

As James watched, she speared a carrot on the end of her knife and examined it rather glumly.

" _There,_ " he sighed, making sure to sound dreamy and smitten, like the characters in the romance novels his mother kept stashed around the castle. "The girl with the red hair."

Of course, James's beloved was far prettier than any of the ladies in his mother's books. Her skin was as pale and luminescent as a new moon, and her long hair fell in elegant curls about her face. He had _known_ that he was in love from the moment he'd first seen her.

"I see," said Euphemia.

"Decidedly red," muttered Lord de Mimsy-Porpington—who had brought all four of his unmarried daughters to court—his lips pursed in distaste.

"A rare colour in this part of the world," the queen mused, "though quite beautiful, it must be said. Don't you agree, Porpington?"

Lord de Mimsy-Porpington opened and closed his mouth like a fish. "Well, now—"

"I _love_ her," said James.

"B—but the complexion, Your Majesty," said Lord de Mimsy-Porpington, trying again. The queen's sly rebuke had set his cheeks aflame. "A sickly pallor, to be sure—"

"Nonsense," the queen cut over him. "Hair notwithstanding, the girl is bound to be pale, living in that jagged wasteland with all of that ghastly snow. She must see the sun but rarely."

"She's a Ravenclaw?" James questioned, watching in awe as she took a bite from her carrot. The kingdom of Ravenclaw spanned the north of the country and boasted several mountain ranges.

"On her father's side only," Lord de Mimsy-Porpington piped up. His face was still puce. "Her mother was a woman of very little consequence, Your Majesty. A Hufflepuff, if you can imagine, with no real connections to—"

"Her late mother was a lady by birth, and _she_ is the youngest daughter of the 16th Viscount of Rowena," said Euphemia coldly, which caught James's eye at once. She smiled at him—one of the sly, secretive smiles she liked to share with James whenever she saw through a simpering sycophant's ill-advised scheme. The queen was the cleverest woman alive besides McGonagall. There was nothing any lord could tell her about one of her guests that she didn't know already. "And you, darling son, have chosen to fall in love with her?"

James nodded.

"How convenient."

That was music to his ears. "Can I marry her, then?"

"She _is_ quite close to you in age, I suppose," his mother mused. She raised her goblet and studied the girl with narrowed eyes as it was refilled by a footman, her brow furrowed in thought. "She'll have a substantial dowry, of course, I cannot find fault with her lineage, and she hasn't been entered into any other engagement, as far as I can be certain…"

James bobbed up and down on the spot, bubbling with excitement.

"I suppose I don't see why not," the queen concluded. "Her father would certainly be amenable to the match, so I'm sure we could pull it off—"

James punched the air with gusto and let out a whoop of delight, startling many.

"—just as soon as you turn twenty-one."

His fist dropped to his side at once.

He gaped at his mother, but she only smiled back and took a sip of her wine.

Why, but his dreams were _ruined!_

Ruined! Obliterated! Smashed to bloody smithereens, like the time he and Sirius had stolen into the Potions chamber and burst that sow's bladder.

"What?!" he cried out.

"You know that I dislike repeating myself, James."

"But _why?"_

"My darling, you're far too young to get married right away—"

"But that's not fair!"

"As is tradition—"

"That's _torture!"_

"Twenty-one is the age at which a prince of Gryffindor _should_ marry, per tradition, as well you know." The queen set her goblet next to her plate. Her voice was firm. "Or should I ask our esteemed professor to teach you our kingdom's history once more?"

"No!" James yelped, balking at the idea of it. McGonagall was frightening when one of her lessons did not, as she liked to put it, permeate his thick skull the first time around. The way his teacher spoke to him was really quite disgraceful at times. "I know the traditions!"

"Then why are you so incensed, child?"

"Because that's—that's _eight years away!"_ James cried out, the injustice of it all rattling his bones raw. He was not some common lord of somewhere or other, he was a prince—the _crown_ prince, destined to be king one day—yet he could not have whatever he wanted, when he wanted. He was _in love,_ damn it, and when people fell in love they got married. That was the rule. "It's too long to wait!"

"You shall just have to learn to bear it, I'm afraid."

"But what if I die of a broken heart before then?"

"Then you will be dead, so it won't be likely to trouble you."

"But what'll you do for an heir if that happens?"

"Name my ward to the throne, I suppose," said his mother. She brushed James's cheek with her thumb and smiled indulgently, ignoring Lord de Mimsy-Porpington's unconvincing laugh. "Cheer up, sweet one. It won't serve you well to wish your childhood away."

"Why not, when you're the one wishing my happiness away?" James sulkily retorted.

His mother laughed through her nose and patted his face. "Is my son not adorable, Porpington?"

"Indeed," said Lord de Mimsy-Porpington tightly.

"Such a handsome boy," she cooed, then dropped her jewel-encrusted hand into her lap. "Now, off you go. Back to your seat, and we'll talk about it later."

"How much later?"

"Your seat, James."

"But I don't want—"

"There's plenty of time to be wed when you grow up."

"But I _am_ grown up!" James protested. Which he _was._ His voice had already started to break. "Why can't you—"

"Return to your seat," his mother warned, with a look that said _don't you dare test me,_ "or I shall have McGonagall sent for."

If his mother was willing to threaten him with McGonagall to make him behave, James didn't need to be told twice. He fled, retreating to his empty chair a little further down the table and throwing himself into it with gusto and rage. The honourable Professor Pomona Sprout of the Hufflepuff marshes threw him an odd look when he sat down, so he stuck his tongue out at her and hoped his mother didn't see it.

The redheaded girl _did_ see, however, and threw her eyes down to her plate, suppressing a smile.

Quite at once, James's dearly departed hopes sprung blithely back to life.

A smile!

A smile from his glorious future bride, no less!

Well…only if James could find the patience to wait for another eight years.

Blast his mother, and Lord de Mimsy-Porpington, and the stupid Gryffindor traditions.

He had to take matters into his own hands.

*****

When the banquet ended, the royal family and their guests moved to the ballroom for dancing and drinks, both of which James was deemed too young to partake in.

Not that he wanted to partake in all of that bowing and waltzing and kissing of hands.

Usually.

His formal dance lessons were due to begin on his fourteenth birthday and James had been concocting schemes to prolong the inevitable—whilst laughing at Sirius, who was due to start in November—but he was a changed man now. He knew what love was. He had beheld the daughter of the 16th Viscount of Rowena, and the art of masterful dancing now seemed like a vital skill which had been callously denied to him.

"Isn't she pretty?" he asked Sirius, watching her talk to her father on the other side of the ballroom.

Sirius shrugged. He'd snuck his wand into the feast and was trying to level a hex at Professor Slughorn—who had labelled his latest efforts at a Shrinking Solution merely "passable"—without being noticed. Sirius was the royal family's ward and a cousin of some distance—third, perhaps, and something removed—but James's best friend, most importantly, and had a talent for mischief that couldn't be equalled. "I don't know."

"You must know, she's right over there."

"I've got better things to do than stare at some girl."

"You think staring at old Sluggy instead is better?"

"Who said I was staring? Watch this," said Sirius, and turned his back to Slughorn, positioning himself so that the tip of the wand he'd stuck beneath his armpit was pointing directly at their Potions master. The grip end was sticking out the other side, rather like the toy swords they'd used to "stab" one another with as children. "Tell me if anybody gets in the way."

James double-checked the path between them and Slughorn. "You're in the clear."

"Your parents aren't watching?"

"Don't worry about my parents." The ballroom floor was longer than its ceiling was high, and the windows alone were four times the height of James's father. "They're at the other end of the room."

Sirius grinned, and gripped his wand tightly.

 _"Igniloquitir!"_ he whispered.

A narrow beam of light shot across the ballroom, casting the marble floor in a pale white glow, and hit Slughorn squarely in the back. He immediately belched out a jet of bright red fire which caught hold of one of the curtains and set the entire thing aflame.

As the orchestra came to a screeching halt, terrified screams began to erupt around him and noblemen scattered in all directions, a horrified Slughorn clapped his hands to his mouth and dropped to his knees.

"You set the drapes on fire," James pointed out, watching the flames savage their way through the fashionable gold brocade with interest.

Sirius glanced over his shoulder. His wand was already tucked into his sleeve. "Whoops."

"Mother loves those curtains. She'll kill you."

"She won't if I tell her you did it."

James glared at Sirius. Behind him, Slughorn had let out another flaming belch and set his trousers on fire. He was rolling around on the floor while Countess Vector of Eaglefield sprayed him with water from her wand. Yet more people were working on the curtains. "You wouldn't _dare."_

"I would, and she'd believe me."

"No she wouldn't."

"I'm not the one who pitched a fit because she won't let me marry some girl."

"Some girl..." James whirled around and found her in the crowd almost at once. She was standing alone—her father had rushed to assist with the drapes—and trying to suppress a laugh as she watched Slughorn thrash about.

"Attention!" cried the queen, who had appeared before the now-smoking curtains, hands lifted into the air to signal to the crowd. The cuffs of her gown sleeves were so wide that the purple velvet trailed below her waist. "Attention, everyone!"

Now was his chance. His moment. His one window of opportunity.

"See you," he muttered to Sirius.

As his mother began to assure her guests that everything was under control, James darted across the room, weaving between stationary pairs of dancers, and found himself standing directly before the girl of his dreams.

She blinked at him in surprise but said nothing. Perhaps his sudden appearance had alarmed her, or perhaps James was so handsome that she was overwhelmed by love. That was the more likely scenario.

"Hello," he said, drawing himself up to his fullest height.

"Hello," she replied, and immediately coloured, her cheeks glowing almost as red as her hair. "I mean, good evening"—she sank into a neat curtsy—"Your Royal Highness."

"Oh, you shan't have to curtsy to me," he told her grandly.

"I shan't?"

"Not ever."

A little crease wrinkled in her forehead. "Why not?"

"Because," he said, and put on his most charming smile, "you're going to be my wife."

She immediately burst into tears.


	2. A Golden Age of Melodramatic Ignorance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kindness of your responses to this fic has overwhelmed me, truly. Thank you so much for being wonderful, supportive people, readers dear.
> 
> I am certainly going somewhere a little odd with this fic, but trust me. It'll be...well, you'll see soon enough.

_IDEAS!!_

_learn archery_

~~_grow a beard?? (can't grow beard)_ ~~

_rescue her from mortal peril_

_start romance between thomas and her maid, bond with her over the beauty of their love_

_find out the name of her maid_

_it's ingrid_

_forget it, thomas is engaged_

_rescue ingrid from mortal peril???_

~~_rename a wing of the palace after her (mother says no)_ ~~

_become celebrated war hero (note: need to somehow start a war)_

_IMPORTANT WE BOTH LIKE PAINTING - DO SOMETHING WITH THIS?_

~~_tempt her with cat (algernon uncooperative)_ ~~

_impress her with duelling_

_impress her with quidditch_

_impress her with hair_

_beg_

_get mcgonagall to ask her_

_give up and die_

*****

"What on earth were you thinking?" the queen demanded.

It was a question she often asked her son.

Particularly lately.

James would have responded, but he was beaten to the post by his father, Fleamont, prince consort of the three kingdoms and a stalwart supporter of his wife's every mad or iniquitous notion, who cut in with a softly-spoken, "He wasn't."

"Hah!" spat Euphemia.

"Thinking, that is," said Fleamont.

"What do I _always_ tell you?" the queen pressed on, turning her wrath back upon her son. "What is our vital first step in _any_ situation?"

"You've got to have a p—"

"You've _got_ to have a plan!" Euphemia threw her hands up in the air like a mummer breaking into a dramatic soliloquy. "What was the _plan,_ James?"

James resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

He'd been called into his parents' bedchamber for a scolding and found that his mother had forgotten to remove her tiara in her anger. She made for quite a sight in her trailing silk nightgown, gesticulating her way around the room, stripped of all her usual finery but for the rubies and diamonds that nestled in her black hair, gleaming angrily at him in the candlelight.

If the prince knew his mother at all, she hadn't forgotten to take it off, but kept it on by design.

This was an intimidation tactic.

Unfortunately for the queen, her son was no longer an impressionable child of thirteen, because he was a whole year older, and therefore hardened from experience. He had even read two chapters of a book which McGonagall—tasked with preparing him for kingship—had given him on the art of negotiation. James was strong like a mighty oak tree. He did not have to bend to his mother's will if he chose not to.

It didn't matter that he'd only read those chapters so he might successfully train his new cat to fetch him food from the kitchens. The point was, he was prepared to face off against a formidable foe.

His mother, that was. Algernon persisted in ignoring each and every one of James's commands.

"No plans," he said, thinking of Sirius. "We die like men."

 _"I_ almost died when I saw you clattering past the window," Euphemia snapped. She started pacing rapidly back and forth. "What were you _thinking?"_

"He wasn't thinking, dear," said James's father, quietly repeating the same sentiment he'd been sharing for the last ten minutes.

"Oh, of _that_ we can be certain."

"Mother—"

"Foolish, thoughtless child—"

"Mother," James sighed, feeling very old and wise in the face of her immaturity, "nothing even happened—"

"Putting your life at risk!"

"I wasn't—"

"You might have been killed!"

"I knew what I was doing, Carter stands on his saddle all the ti—"

"Carter is the finest equestrian in all three kingdoms!" Euphemia snarled, careening around on the spot, her nightgown whipping at the air. _"You_ are a fourteen year old child who quaked with terror at the mere _sight_ of a pony until well after you turned ten!"

James's mouth dropped open, all thoughts of staid maturity sailing out of the window. "I was eight-and-a-half!"

"You were ten, and you were _just_ as foolhardy then as you are now."

"I wasn't even hurt!"

"Your safety is of the _utmost_ importance! When will you learn—"

"A wizard can't be killed by falling off a horse!"

"Oh, a wizard can snap his neck like anyone else, believe me," his mother retorted, in a dangerous timbre, and looked almost as if she was ready to clasp her hands around James's throat and give him a demonstration. Instead of killing her son, however, she looked to her husband, who was already in bed with a book in his lap. "Flea, darling?"

"Yes, dear?"

"What do you make of all this?"

"I make whatever you make of it," said Fleamont, with an amused twitch to his thin lips. His glasses were perched precariously on the tip of his nose. "And I very much doubt that the young lady was impressed."

"Impressed!" Euphemia forced out a derisive laugh. "The girl was turned white with shock, I saw it!"

James opened his mouth to refute his mother's lie—the lady of Rowena was always very pale—but saw the warning look in his father's eyes and slammed his mouth shut.

His beloved had _not_ been terrified when James tore by on his horse, standing bolt upright on the beast's back like a proud warrior. She was made of stronger stuff than that.

She'd been mildly, surprised, was all.

And...maybe a bit amused when he later fell off.

Fine, she'd laughed a _lot,_ but at least he'd gotten her attention.

"James, the viscount and his family were invited so that you could undo the poor first impression you made upon his daughter," said his father. "Do try to remember that."

"After you insisted you be given a chance, I'll remind you," his mother put in.

"You need to think these schemes through more carefully, son."

"I know that," said James. "I just thought—"

"You _didn't_ think!" his mother accused.

"No, I did! I thought—"

"Just imagine how the poor child must have felt," Euphemia cut in, "watching him gallop past her like the headless horseman, screaming his intentions at the top of his lungs. And isn't it just like a man to think that impressive?"

James felt his cheeks heat in anger. Yes, he'd declared his love as he charged by the lady on his horse, but he hadn't wailed it at her like a banshee. His mother was taking too many liberties with the truth and he wouldn't stand for it. "I didn't _scream."_

"Likely she'll be too shaken to even sleep tonight—"

"I didn't—"

"As if it isn't bad enough that any girl be forced to marry in the first place, how must it feel to know that one's likely intended is a reckless, thoughtless—"

"You married dad!" James reminded her hotly. "And nobody forced _you!"_

"Of course nobody forced _me,_ I am the queen," said his mother grandly. "Unlike your lady of Rowena, I possessed the happy privilege of choosing my own spouse and I married your father because he is a man of exemplary character with whom I fell madly in love. And frankly, James, it would do you well to emulate him, for her sake—for the _country's_ sake—if not for your own!"

Face burning like a furnace, James looked to his father for help, but Fleamont merely smiled and bowed his head over his book. He always thought it was funny when his son got into a scrape, and rarely spoke against his wife.

Fat lot of help he was.

"I too have an exemplary character," James mumbled fitfully.

"You're fourteen," Euphemia scoffed, "you do not _have_ a character, and you will develop one according to my wishes or I shall have you promised to one of Porpington's numerous daughters before the year is up!"

James recoiled in horror, colliding with his mother's agarwood vanity. Her perfume bottles rattled ominously behind him. "You _wouldn't!"_

"I would."

"The name is _de Mimsy-_ Porpington, dear," said Fleamont.

"I know what it is," Euphemia retorted, "but I don't have the time to utter every syllable of that odious man's name when our only son is determined to fling himself headlong into an early grave."

"I've not flung myself into an early grave," James argued, but weakly. He knew the fight was lost. "I just—"

"Flung yourself into a lake," his mother finished for him.

"The trout must have been startled," said Fleamont, chuckling.

The queen didn't share her husband's appreciation for the comedy of the situation. She crossed the room in quick strides and stopped in front of her son, drawing herself up to her full height with the unshakeable dignity born of royal breeding. James had inched a little above her in height over the past year, yet he felt himself shrink in her presence all the same.

"The next time I ask you to escort a young lady around the grounds, you will escort her around the grounds, not careen around on your horse like an unskilled circus performer," she instructed, her brown eyes narrowed on his face. "Is that clear?"

"Clear," James mumbled.

"Good. Now leave us at once." She swept an arm towards the door. "I shall need to make ardent love to your father to forget about all of this—"

"Mother!" James yelped, clapping his hands to his ears.

"—and your being here is rather an obstacle. So go, _now,_ before I have your broomstick broken up for kindling."

It would have felt amazing to challenge the queen, to call out each and every one of her loopy exaggerations and assert himself—the future _king,_ for crying out loud!—as a force to be reckoned with, but James knew better than to wrangle with the beast at the apex of her rage. This was because he was deeply intimidated by his mother at all times and also because he was completely in the wrong, but he would have subjected himself to a fun evening of torture before he _ever_ admitted that aloud.

"Fine," he forced out from between gritted teeth, and stomped his way to the door, making sure to give the vanity a good strong shove as he pushed away from it. He heard some of the perfume bottles fall as he left the room and smiled smugly to himself at the miniscule scrap of victory he had managed to claw from the queen's clutches.

"And no Quidditch for a month!" his mother shouted, before the door was slammed behind his back.

So much for small victories.

*****

"My life is a perfect vale of shadows," James announced.

Then he threw himself face-down upon his bed and groaned loudly into his goose-feather pillow, just in case Sirius hadn't gleaned the severity of the situation.

He had believed—more fool him—that the injuries he sustained when he'd pitched into the lake would have been punishment enough for his misdemeanour and his mother's genial behaviour at dinner seemed to confirm it, but it turned out that she did not want to cause a scene in front of their guests, and as Healer Smethwyck had fixed James up in an instant, she obviously felt that a more protracted punishment would be suitable.

Not that a dislocated shoulder could hurt as much as being callously laughed at by the love of his life, but Quidditch was the only thing that meant more to James than the redheaded angel who had stolen his heart—that and his cat, and possibly bacon—so it was unspeakably cruel of the queen to take that away from him, too.

"There are people who have it worse," replied Sirius from the corner, definitively proving that he had _not_ gleaned the severity of the situation.

"What people?"

"Most people."

"Don't _start—"_

"Literally, any people. All people have it worse than you," Sirius continued. "There are people who live in shacks, people who can't afford to eat, people riddled with disease—"

James used his pillow to muffle his anguished cry.

"—and if you ever bothered to leave the palace and talk to anyone in the city, you'd know that."

"Yeah? Well why don't _you_ go and ask my mother if I can take a stroll around Godric without the guards," James retorted nastily, directing his words at the window to his left, rather than the friend to his right. "I'm sure she'd appreciate a good joke."

A loud creak came from the chair in Sirius's corner. "Better than listening to you whinge about nothing."

"I wouldn't if I were you," James warned. "She's 'making ardent love' to father and right now I hate you _just_ enough to have all the Forgetfulness Potion in the palace flushed down the toilet."

The chair creaked again, then hit the wall with a dull thud.

"Hah," James murmured softly into his pillow.

"Why does she always _tell_ you when she's doing it?"

"She hates me."

"She doesn't."

"My life is over."

"Just because that girl won't—"

"She's banned me from Quidditch," said James flatly, and flipped onto his back just in time to see the smirk slide off his best friend's face. "For a month."

"Shit," said Sirius under his breath. He might not have taken James's romantic hopes seriously, but Quidditch was no laughing matter. "That long?"

"Maybe longer."

"But you weren't even hurt."

"I know!"

"A popped shoulder is nothing!"

"I _know!"_

"I could pop mine out right now, if I wanted," said Sirius, though he did not demonstrate.

"And the next match is on Friday!" James lamented, his fingers curling in the folds of his scarlet bedding. The Quidditch league was his one refuge from the endless drudgery of his royal obligations and James was the palace team's star Chaser. He knew that for a fact because it was widely agreed. Even McGonagall said so, and McGonagall never lied or pretended he was marvellous in all ways like everyone else who worked for his family. She had even been known to sit in on his dance lessons because she "needed a good laugh," but when James was on his broomstick, he had no greater supporter than his teacher. "We'll lose by a hundred points at _least."_

McGonagall was going to string him up by his neck for getting banned. The Palace Panthers were facing the delegation from the Ravenclaw citadel on Friday and Professor Flitwick hailed from Rowena. He and McGonagall were fiercely competitive when it came to Quidditch, and the Panthers had no chance without James.

They'd lose valuable points in the league.

 _Everyone_ would know that the crown prince had been banned from playing by his mummy.

Also, the viscount and his family were going to be in attendance at the match, and James had been relishing the opportunity to _finally_ show his lady what he could do with the wind in his hair and a Quaffle in hand, but they'd be back in Rowena before James could so much as sniff the handle of a broomstick again.

"Citadel have Wadcock," said Sirius, "make it two hundred."

James sat bolt upright. "How did they get _her?"_ Joscelind Wadcock played in the professional league.

"On special request from Puddlemere, just for Friday's match," said Sirius, who had found his smirk again. "Recruited in your honour."

"Shit!"

"Don't swear, it isn't princely."

"Shut up," James commanded, and laid back down on the bed. "Shit."

"This is what happens when you waste time chasing after a girl."

"Shut up. Where's Algernon?"

"I don't know."

"I need him."

"So go and find him."

"I'm too distraught to get up. Ring the bell and ask Thomas to do it."

"The servants have better things to do than look for your cat."

"There is nothing better to do than look for my cat!" James contested, and rolled to the edge of his bed to yank the hangings across and shroud himself from the humiliation of the world, and especially from Sirius, who had no sympathy for him at all.

"This fart's better," said Sirius, letting one rip.

James screwed his eyes shut tight and pushed his glasses over his forehead.

His life was a perfect vale of shadows.

*****

Amongst all of the rejection and unfairness, the painful dance lessons and pointless lectures, the countless hours wasted sitting in on his parents' meetings, the endless talk about harvest yields and taxation and secret Slytherin spies, James found a small handful of good blessings.

The first, of course, was his merry band of friends. His valet Thomas, Carter in the stables, all of the lively housemaids, Mrs. Bird and Miss Katie in the kitchens, and Remus and Peter. Sirius too, even though he lived to torment everyone.

The second, the secret Animagus project.

The third, Quidditch.

The fourth, his time spent in the kitchens, which technically wasn't allowed but nobody told on him to his parents, not even McGonagall, who thought he could learn patience through cookery. Learning to do interesting things with food was fun—not in the same way Quidditch was fun, but it gave him a chance to use his imagination and it had been such a tremendous laugh to see his mother compliment the flavour of her lentil soup without knowing that her son had been the chef. 

The fifth, duelling practice. Of any kind. James was as gifted with a wand as he was with a sword.

The sixth, and final, and perhaps most crucial, was that the Viscount of Rowena—unlike his daughter—heartily approved of James as a future son-in-law.

As he should have. James was brilliantly clever and good at most things. He'd even mastered the art of the waltz at long last. Madame Trevelyan hadn't wept in frustration during one of their lessons in eight whole weeks.

"Deepest apologies, your Royal Highness," said Lord Rowena—lords of his importance were always named for their homes—on a wet spring evening, sinking into a bow so deep that his nose was in danger of brushing the marble floor. "I don't know what came over her."

"There's no need to apologise, sir," said James, his face hot—from the embarrassment or from the wine he had been drinking, it was difficult to tell.

"I can't think why she does it."

"It was my fault, I just—"

"You're a fine young man, if I may be so bold—"

"No, honestly—"

"Please, your Royal Highness, there is no need for you to shield her," the viscount assured him. "I'm afraid that my sweet daughter is still prone to acting in a foolhardy manner which does not become her. She _will_ be spoken to about it, I can assure you."

Lord Rowena had come racing over at the moment his daughter ran off and left James—who had sneakily consumed enough redcurrant wine behind his parents' backs to believe that she might actually consider dancing with him tonight—alone and staring blankly at her retreating back. 

The viscount always came racing over when his daughter left James alone.

In this instance, James barely had a chance to issue the invitation before she'd snapped a curt, "No, thank you!" in his face and hurried away, and there her ever-watchful father had appeared.

It was humiliating.

It also shouldn't have bothered James as much as it did, because he was used to it by now. Ever since that fateful day when he had announced his intention to wed her and sent her into a flurry of hysterical tears, the only words she seemed to have for James were "No, thank you," occasionally coupled with "I'm busy," or "I have somewhere to be," or even "I don't like you," when she found him particularly annoying.

It _shouldn't_ have bothered James—he could have picked one of any number of eligible girls to marry—but it did.

His love for her should not have endured with the heat of a thousand flaming gold brocade curtains (his mother had recently replaced them with a luxuriously deep red velvet), and yet…

But how could James help it? She was so pretty and elegant, her laugh was so glorious, and her skill with a bow and arrow was so unparalleled that all the kingdom talked of it. She'd gone to the archery range every day since her family returned to Gryffindor for their annual visit, and James had watched her practice from behind a tree on a few occasions, which felt vaguely sinister, but he had no other choice.

She truly was marvellous.

"It was my fault," he told the viscount. "I startled her."

"She is honoured by your attention, truly, but you know how young ladies are." Lord Rowena’s pale face had turned almost as red as his daughter's hair, his many freckles melding together into one rosy patch of skin. "It's all the fashion these days to encourage a man's affection by way of rejection."

James really didn't know how young ladies were these days, but that didn't sound correct. "Er—"

"She means for you to keep up the pursuit, your Royal Highness!"

"I'm sure—"

"Why, she's told me so herself!"

This, also, did not sound correct, but James's waning heart leapt for the stars all the same. His head was starting to feel a bit funny. "Has she?"

"Oh, yes indeed! Why, just the other morning—ah, Professor!" The viscount was all smiles for McGonagall, who appeared by James's side as if from nowhere, as she usually tended to do. "Marvellous feast, wasn't it?"

"Marvellous indeed," said McGonagall dryly. Her black hair was pulled into its usual unyielding knot, and not even the grandest of parties could have convinced her to deviate from the sensible emerald dress robes she wore for every special occasion. "Have you been enjoying your stay at the palace?"

"Oh, immensely, as always! Does the health good to get a bit of sun," he replied, patting his stomach, as a bolt of lightning crashed through the torrential rain outside. "I was just telling his Royal Highness that my daughter is especially enjoying her stay."

"Indeed."

"She's quite taken with this part of the country."

"Fascinating."

"In fact, I was about to suggest to the young prince that he might accompany L—"

"Pardon my rudeness, my lord," McGonagall cut in, not sounding remotely sorry for her rudeness, "but I have urgent business with the prince. You will excuse us, I'm sure?"

The viscount seemed quite discomfited by the request, but he must have feared McGonagall as James did, for he bowed again and bade them goodbye with a meek little, "Of course."

McGonagall took off at once, the heels of her polished black boots clipping the floor with militant rhythm, and James hurried after her, taking great care not to fall flat on his face and give himself away.

"You are drunk," she informed him, once they'd left the ballroom floor and found themselves among the milling crowd.

James let out a scornful guffaw. "I am not!"

"You very much are."

"How'd you reckon?"

"You're still holding the bottle," said his teacher, turning around to face him. He came to an ungainly halt before her and looked down at the mostly-empty wine bottle in his hand. Somehow, he'd forgotten to put it down. "Care to explain?"

James hurriedly hid the bottle behind his back. "They'll never know."

"Who won't know?"

"Doesn't matter." He shrugged. "I am not remotely drunk, forsooth."

"Oh, I think you are."

"And if I _wanted_ to be drunk, why shouldn't I?" he protested, and swung the bottle in the air. Two ladies nearby were forced to duck out of the way, clutching at their absurdly bulbous skirts. "This is _my_ birthday party, I am an adult man—"

"You are fifteen years old."

"And that's practically an adult—"

"How many Slytherin spies were caught in Gryffindor this past month?"

James didn't realise that he was balancing on one foot, but he must have been, because he stumbled at the abrupt change of topic. "Beg your pardon?"

"It was discussed at length at your mother's council meeting today," McGonagall reminded him. Her sharp eyes were scanning his face in assessment. "If you are, as you say, not remotely drunk, I'm quite sure that you shall be able to remember an important detail like that."

James screwed up his face and tried to remember what had transpired at the meeting. The kingdom of Slytherin seceded from the four kingdoms when James's grandfather was on the throne, and a tenuous peace had since existed between it and the three it left behind, but the recent efforts of a mercenary named Riddle to take power in Slytherin—and extend that power to the rest of the country, in turn—had led to an influx of attacks, schemes and spies in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. As a result, the border between Slytherin and the three kingdoms had been locked down completely for close to two years, with tens of noble families stripped of their wealth and titles, and banished to Slytherin in perpetuity, when it was found that they were sympathetic to Riddle's cause. 

Sirius's own immediate family had been one of the banished, with Sirius himself escaping the cull because of his innocence, as well as the royal family's enduring love for him. It was a serious issue indeed, and often discussed by the council.

Trouble was, the full moon was two nights away, and James had been busy planning for that.

Then he'd been sketching a doodle of a Golden Snitch.

Then he thought he'd seen a flash of red hair out the window, which had just been the work of his imagination, but still, James had been far too preoccupied to actually listen much.

Or at all.

It wasn't his fault. Those council meetings were _so_ bloody boring.

"Four hundred," he eventually, confidently concluded.

McGonagall's lips twitched. "The correct answer is six."

"I was close enough," he mumbled, and felt as if the whole world was against him.

"It is your birthday," said McGonagall, and held her hand out for the bottle. James surrendered it at once. "So I shan't be too hard on you tonight, but it might be worth remembering that no decent gentleman ever won fair lady's heart with a bottle's worth of wine in his belly."

"Can't win it without either," he moodily mused.

"Even so, it's wiser to stop before you humiliate yourself any further," said his teacher, tucking the bottle safely under her arm. "Now, they'll be calling you for the speeches soon, best splash some water on your face."

"Splash water on _your_ face," he retorted.

McGonagall spared him a pitying sort of laugh, already striding away with purpose. "You can come up with _much_ better than that, young man."

She was always saying that—that James could do better, think better, act better.

He wasn't inclined to agree.

*****

_NEW AND IMPROVED IDEAS (OPERATION WIFE)_

~~_grow a beard (cat attacked my face, terrible idea)_ ~~

_fake death, surprise her at funeral_

_single-handedly uncover a cabal of slytherin-sympathising dissidents, become hero_

_also: casually reject the term “hero” because “anyone would have done the same”_

~~_ride through the early morning mist wearing an open shirt (caught flu)_ ~~

~~_get remus to ask her (NO if remus asks her she'll fall in love with him)_ ~~

~~_get sirius to ask her (he refused)_ ~~

~~_get peter to ask her (she stood on his toe)_ ~~

~~_tie note to algernon's collar and send him to ask her (note found in chamberpot - HOW????)_ ~~

_buy her things?_

_beg_

_actually die, haunt her suitors_

*****

"I don't care about flowers," said the lady, and turned up her nose at the bouquet. "Give them to someone else."

A silence followed her words, a chill breeze drifted through the leafy green alcove in which he had found her, and James blinked several times in quick succession.

This was...not what he had been led to believe.

Not what _she_ had led him to believe, just the night before.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked her.

"I said I don't care about flowers, and I certainly don't want these."

"But—"

"What kind of flowers _are_ these, anyway?" She lowered her paintbrush and frowned at the offending bunch of cheerful white blooms, sweeping a ringlet of red hair over one shoulder with her free hand. The sunlight shone down on both of their backs, bathing the scene in a cheerful, buttery light which had no right to exist when James was being so thoroughly destroyed. "They look strange."

"They're—they're honeysuckle."

"And?"

"Honeysuckle is your favourite," he reminded her, feeling rather dazed. Firstly, because he'd been _sure_ that this would charm her, secondly because she was so bloody pretty up close that it was difficult to keep his head on straight. "Your _very_ favourite. You told my mother—"

She let out a short laugh. "Oh, _that."_

"What?"

"I only said that because she asked."

"What?"

"The queen asked me what my favourite flower was and I didn't want to be rude and tell her the truth," she explained, "so I made up a lie, but I don't care about flowers and I don't want these."

"But I picked these just for you."

"I don't care."

"But—"

"I don't care."

"But I risked my _life_ to get them!" James exclaimed, and he truly had. At least, in a sense. Honeysuckle wasn't grown anywhere in the grounds, and James had been forced to sneak out at first light to obtain some from the Buckley farm. When his mother found out—and she _would_ find out—she would be furious. She was convinced that her son would be murdered by Slytherin spies if he ever ventured away from the palace without an armed escort by his side. Even at sixteen, James could apparently not be trusted to defend himself. "My lady—"

"I am _not_ your lady," she said coldly, and swept away in a flurry of green silk, fiery ringlets bouncing in the air, leaving behind nothing but a half-finished painting of the pond and the shattered fragments of James's heart. 

It wasn't the outcome he had hoped for, but in the three years James had known and loved the daughter of the 16th Viscount of Rowena, he had never managed to engage her in conversation for quite that long.

It made for one of their better conversations, all in all.

That wasn't particularly encouraging.


End file.
